Myrddin's Moon
by LittleMender
Summary: She blinked away a trembling that broke on the quiver of her bottom lip. Seeking to forestall the forming of tears in her lovely eyes, he acted on a very rash but altogether irresistible impulse. Installment # 9 in the Holiday/Next Time Series.


**I know very little about the religious practices of the ancient Celts and Gaels. We often assume they engaged in ritual sacrifice of the human kind, but the evidence to support that is often in question. I do, however, think it reasonable to believe that, like all other religious, political and cultural groups, these could have off-shoots that engaged in heinous practices that were not a part of the fundamental tenets of the organization at its purest, even in this day and age. It is those aberrations—not the mainstream—that are referenced in this story.**

**Thanks to MerriWyllow for correcting me on specifics. I've just stopped wondering how she knows the stuff she knows.**

**Autumn always brings with it a sense of magic for me, and I let that carry me away a bit with this installment. I've taken whimsical liberties, but it's my story, and you're stuck with it. I mean that in a fun and loving way.**

**And happy, happy birthday, Frogster!**

**Number 9 in the Holiday/Next Time Series**

MYRDDIN'S MOON

Lisbon was going to kill him.

They had been called north to the tiny, forested village of Iona, so small as to not even appear on the maps, barely more than a shimmer in the morning fog. A shaken hiker had found the remains of Kieran Dunne stabbed a dozen times and unceremoniously dumped in a ravine deep in the woods. The young man's death was disturbingly bloody in its own right and would have been considered a violent oddity if not for that fact that it was the third killing the peaceful village and surrounds had seen this year.

In mid-March, seventeen year-old Juliette Brown had last been seen leaving her job at the Iron Skillet just south of Klamath Falls before her body had been found. Three months later, Hanna McBride, a freshman at a nearby community college, had been abducted from the campus parking lot after an evening class, her car engine discovered still running, driver's side door hanging agape in the early hours of the next morning. The two young women had absolutely nothing in common except for a slight similarity in appearance, their reputation as "good girls" with little social life, and in the meeting of their end. Jane had seen photographs from those previous crime scenes, the images disturbingly identical. Both had been positioned gracefully in a small boat carried on the gentle current of the stream that meandered through the heart of the lush, dense forest that surrounded Iona, laid to rest like the Lady of Shalott. But in spite of the beautiful robe each had worn, in spite of the long hair brushed to a shine and flowing over the boat's edge, the hole in their chests where their hearts had been removed was evidence that no grace had been lent either Juliette or Hanna in the ending of their lives.

The local sheriff and his deputies, adept at handling drunk-and-disorderlies and the occasional small-time theft, were at a loss. There was scant evidence, only the verification from Forensics that the same knife—or dagger as it turned out—had been used in all three killings. What leads they had managed to uncover had quickly grown cold. So, in the wake of this third different but just as brutal murder, the nonplussed lawmen had been glad enough to turn everything over to the Serious Crimes Unit of the CBI.

They had arrived on Wednesday, and Jane had listened to the recounting of the particulars in the case with that behavioral oxymoron of intensity and nonchalance that Lisbon had come to know was his manner when a case really captured his interest. She could tell his mind had taken off in a direction she could not hope to follow without broad hinting on his part. So, rather than fight him—and regardless of her own biting curiosity—she had embraced the quietude of solid, Jane-free police work and allowed him his daily jaunts, confident that he couldn't get into much trouble in the tiny town.

That was Wednesday, and this was Friday. They had only slim leads, but Forensics wasn't done with their testing yet, and Lisbon was confident something would turn up. At her insistence, Jane had met her daily for breakfast, lunch and dinner to go over evidence and interview notes, and she was adamant that he answer his phone when she called. She knew he was on to something but wasn't ready yet to present her with his theory. Or, he was doing that damn it's-better-to-show-you thing. At any rate, his eyes, while alert and giving proof to her suspicion that he was pursuing something, gave no sign of the overly energetic, nearly electric sparkle that nearly always preceded Jane doing something terribly dangerous and often dangerously stupid. Of course, she hadn't seen him at lunch or dinner today.

Something about the dates of the killings along with other bits and pieces had niggled at Jane's brain, and while Lisbon et al engaged in the usual procedurals, Jane had taken himself to the quaint local library in search of a history of the area. There he had met Danu.

That wasn't her legal name, of course, but the name of her spirit, her real name, the fertility goddess of the original people of Ireland. It was silly and cliché, but she was, he thought—not meaning to be unkind—somewhat simple-minded. And, he had to admit it suited her. She was a Venetian blonde of medium height and sultry build with luminescent skin, and she had a way of carrying herself that Jane knew would melt most men in their shoes. His first thought as he had watched her walk away after their very enlightening conversation that first day had been that Rigsby should be kept away at all costs. His second had been the wonderment that a librarian would know so little about books.

He had learned that the town was originally founded one hundred and fifty-one years earlier and had been gruesomely christened the next year with four unsolved murders, one each in March, June, September and December. This only fanned the flames of his developing theory. Seeking out and finding, with Danu's aid, a rather large and strangely much-used tome on the history of Pretanike (the Greek-Latin derivation of the ancient Celtic name for the British Isles), Jane learned of the religion of the Druids and their many feast days, including recognition of the major sun sabbats, the summer and winter solstices and vernal and autumn equinoxes, some groups practicing more bloody devotions than others. These higher celebrations were observed in lustres, cycles of a month of years, every thirty to be precise. Jane knew it was no coincidence that Iona, California had seen its own cycle of feasts, to the tune of four unsolved murders, four dead young women little more than girls, every thirty years.

Today, Danu had been intent on educating him fully on the rituals and tenets of the faith. A more passionate acolyte could not exist, Jane decided. About a dozen individuals, men and women, from mid-twenties to mid-forties had passed through the library that day. Some had spoken to him, only a few words, but all had taken notice of him, and he had the strange feeling that he was being vetted. The whole experience had been intense—so much so that Jane had missed both the lunch and dinner check-ins with his boss and had been forced, by his own good reasoning, to ignore her subsequent calls, only texting her so she knew he was safe and knowing what fury he was certain to encounter at their next meeting.

As day turned into evening and she was more willing to share information, Jane found out that the young librarian, Whitney Hollister as her parents had christened her, was indeed a member of a local colony of Druids, drawn to Iona by the resemblance of its natural surroundings to that of primitive Britannia as much as to its name. Over the course of his research and conversations with the enticing Danu, he discovered the history of the town itself had much to do with her reason for settling there. Not knowing that Jane was part of the contingency of state law enforcement that had descended on the burg in the wake of Kieran's murder, she had interpreted his interest in the spiritual connections of the place—along with the timing of his arrival—as that of a novice believer. It had taken him only a few minutes to comprehend that the lovely, young, silly Danu was emotionally disturbed if not completely unbalanced. That was on Wednesday. It took him three days to get an invitation. This was Friday, and it was the evening of the Autumn Equinox.

Just before she invited him to dinner, Whitney/Danu had informed him of the celebrations to take place in the woods that night. She had sauntered away to close up the library in complete confidence of his coming along and taking part, the seductive sway of her hips meant to seal the deal. At that point, Jane faced a dilemma of conscience that had nothing to do with Whitney's powers or accoutrements of seduction—she was too obviously and earthily come-hither for his tastes, drawn more to the subtlety of artless sultriness as he was. Knowing the dangers of dwelling on the differences for too long, Jane sharply turned his thoughts to the same destination but with different intentions and reasoning.

His conundrum was this: Should he go along with the dicey plan he'd concocted, discovering the mystery of the murders and perhaps foiling the next, or should he call Lisbon and possibly waste valuable time with explanations and arguments that would result in losing his window of opportunity or—what was more likely—his only taking off on his own anyway? It really wasn't much of a conundrum after all. He and Lisbon had played this game before, and there would be plenty of time for second guessing later. He knew where the line was—he spent a great deal of time toeing the edge. He just hoped this wasn't the step too far.

Upon arrival at the forest's edge, Jane had accepted the librarian's loan of a robe then waited in silence—he guessed for the purpose of meditation—with the others gathered there while Whitney/Danu went ahead to "prepare". He only hoped his cell phone, surreptitiously dialed and hidden away under the lightweight wool, was transmitting.

Several minutes later Danu returned with two other young women, the three of them dressed in richly embroidered robes, the thigh-high front slits hinting at the lack of clothing beneath them. Jane thought it reasonable to assume that everyone but him was in the same state of covered undress. As the three women approached, the other celebrants fell into two columns and made to follow them as they turned to head back in the direction from which they had come.

The worn path wound deep into the forest, gradually giving over to thick undergrowth. Sure of her footing, Danu led the procession toward what looked like a tower of ridged rock, wild green plants growing out of crevices along its face. One by one, the celebrants had stepped through what looked like a hairline fracture to Jane but was actually an opening wide enough for a man to squeeze through, the illusion formed by two walls of rock overlapping with space for passage between. Druids, he had read, preferred to worship in open spaces, grove or glade. But modern-day American sensitivities, backed by law enforcement, had driven those who engaged in particular practices underground.

Following a narrow stone hallway, they had walked down a long incline broken by curves and turns in the path, whether hewn by hand or time Jane couldn't tell. Along the way, by the light of primitive torches braced on the walls, Jane had been able to make out artwork on the rock facings of intricate vines interspersed with wild blooms, birds and the occasional likeness of a deity. Rounding the final curve, he had noticed a sheltered hollow ahead, lit with candles and set apart, but they had turned off the path into the chamber in which they now stood before he had been able to discover its purpose. Although he had done his research and had a very good idea of what he was walking into, knowing and actually seeing were two very different things.

The chamber of celebration was lit with hundreds of candles. The floor was divided into levels, like stone choir risers, three high, that circled around a raised dais in the center. This high point supported a stone table upon which lay the sacrifice, a young woman, Jane guessed barely out of her teens with long flowing hair, clothed—for lack of a better word—in a sheer white length of fabric. She was bound, hands and ankles, and obviously drugged, though not so much that she was unaware of events around her as evidenced by her restrained and unfocused thrashing.

The three leaders took their place around the table, Danu at its head, and Jane realized her true position in this macabre, unbelievable, ridiculous but murderous drama. The remaining disciples took their place on the lower levels, and the priestesses invoked the spirits of nature, the ancestors and the goddesses honored in this hallowed night's unholy festivities. Jane's interest in his research and his memory being what it was, he groaned inwardly when he realized Danu's community had forsaken the traditional autumnal recognition of the god Mabon in favor of Banba, Maeve and Aeval, goddesses of fertility, wantonness and women's sexual satisfaction respectively. It was at that point he remembered, with growing nervousness, that the Autumn Equinox marked the beginning of the cycle of fertility. In this case, the virgin sacrifice was only the catalytic unction for the main act. Rites of worship tonight were meant to culminate in the bearing of fruit at the next Summer Solstice in mid-June in the wake of the May festival. The other attendees began an eerie mantra, and Jane—not knowing the words—wondered in what he recognized was a moment of idiocy fueled by the beginnings of panic if it would suffice to simply chant "watermelon" repeatedly.

Jane peered out from the deep shadow of the hood that obscured most of his face, taking in the other wool-shrouded figures standing around him. The number was even, seven women and seven men, himself the apparently reluctant Kieran's ordained replacement. His eyes returned to Danu, and her expression as she gazed back at him made his gut—as well as other parts of his anatomy—clench with apprehension. As High Priestess, Danu would have her pick of the male attendees. He swallowed thickly, knowing his dance card had been filled for the evening.

Where, oh where was Lisbon?

Between the dampness of the cave, the candle overkill and his own growing apprehension, he chafed at the weight of the close-knit wool robe. Still, he was glad for the fabric that concealed the light from his cell phone as he clutched it in his pocket, dialing Lisbon's number over and over, hoping she was able to trace his location even though there was no service.

The chants of his fellow celebrants began to rise in volume and intensity, and he guessed the hysteria meant that the sacrifice was near. As if to give credence to his assumption, Danu's hand raised, brandishing a long, wide dagger, suspending it just over the bound girl's breast. His eyes skittered around the chamber, looking for something, _anything_ to use as a distraction to slow or a weapon to stop the proceedings unfolding before him. In unison, the circle of disciples began to move toward the dais, fairly pulsing in primal anticipation of the carnalities they would commit in deference to their goddesses. Jane nearly gave into the instinctual urge to hyperventilate, considering the possibility that his passing out might throw a wrench into things. Again, as if in answer to his wonderings, Danu looked at him—her eyes nearly black with lust-laden dilation—and licked her luscious lips. He had the sinking feeling his level of consciousness would not be an issue. Of all times for Lisbon to _not_ be riding his a—

"Freeze! Drop the knife! . . . NOW!"

Danu apparently did not recognize a higher authority when she heard it if that single shot was anything to go by. Rebelling against the command, she raised the knife in an attempt to complete at least one part of the ritual. Lisbon's bullet shattered the priestess's shoulder, sending the dagger clattering harmlessly to the floor.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._

He didn't believe, but he must have meant it because he was on his knees.

Everything went black, and he wondered if the candles had all been simultaneously extinguished or if he had just finally passed out. But the fact that he could hear the cuffs clicking, the steady stream of softly spoken orders and the team's murmured responses as the chamber was cleared were proof neither had happened. His name quietly spoken and feather-light fingertips hesitating at his cheek then more firmly on his shoulder brought him round to the reality that his eyes were tightly, and quite painfully, squeezed shut.

He opened them slowly and blinked. He was kneeling before her, eyes cast down, and the ridiculous notion of kissing those lovely loafers passed through his still fear-fogged brain.

"Wow, Jane. I never figured you to be capable of such . . . _ardor_."

The moment of reverence passed, and he squinted up at her, his lips pushed into a resentful pout.

"I mean, a few minutes more, the fullness of your devotion would have been measured—"

"Lisbon."

"—your mettle tested—"

"Stop it."

"—in the heated crucible—"

"I mean it."

"—of spiritual climax—"

"Shut up."

He growled on that last, and she let the taunt at his cup running over drop and decided to help him up instead. Noticing his overheated state (and biting her tongue), she reached for the robe's clasp at his neck. Something she'd noticed as they were leading the other male participants away caused her to hesitate, her fingers resting lightly against the metal couplings as she raised her eyes to his.

"You're not . . . You didn't . . . Are you still—?"

He looked down into her questioning gaze, more than a little scandalized.

"What do you think I am, woman?"

Helping him lose the woolen garment and handing it to a tech re-entering the room, she couldn't help but laugh, both at his indignation as well as her relief that he had remained dressed. He would have shed his jacket as well, but she stayed him, knowing he would need it against the night chill. When he tried to walk, his legs nearly gave out, and Lisbon took hold of his left hand in hers and looped his arm over her head and across her shoulders. Her right arm slipped around his waist, and she tucked herself into his left side to support him. She was looking down, watching their footing, which—fortunately for Jane—meant she didn't notice his inability to take his eyes off of her.

"How did you find me?"

"When you didn't check in for lunch _or_ dinner and didn't answer your phone, I headed to the library. The sheriff's deputy that insisted on accompanying me thought it was strange that the library was closed early and helped me break in. Some books had been left out on one of the tables—very shoddy of your little librarian, by the way—and I could tell what rabbit trail you were following. The pages were open to . . ."

At that point she stopped walking and inhaled deeply, shaking her head against the cleft of his elbow where it rested against the back of her neck before she could continue. She knew he would never have agreed to go _that_ far. At some point in his initiation into the mystic rites, Kieran Dunne had gotten cold feet, paying the price for his faithlessness, and the image of his butchered body rose in her mind's eye. She lifted her gaze to meet Jane's very lively one and steeled herself against the sudden rush of relief that nearly overwhelmed her.

"Fortunately, the deputy is also a Boy Scout leader and trail guide, so when Forensics called to tell me all three vics had a certain variety of hemlock needle on their clothing he was able to lead us to the only spot in the area where those particular trees grow. After that we just followed the glow of the torches."

"Well that all sounds . . . dull."

"I know. Not nearly so interesting as a front-row seat to the Autumn orgy—"

"Woman," he growled again, a weak attempt at threatening.

"If you don't mind my asking, exactly what _was_ your plan?"

"Meh, I was so confident in your finding me that I didn't bother coming up with one. Lucky for me I was right."

"How like you to take credit for my heroics. And luck had nothing to do with it."

"Are you suggesting there was a higher power at work?" he asked, teasing her affectionately.

She released his left hand, allowing it to curve over the round of her shoulder as she stroked the cross at her throat gently and murmured, "I have my own system."

They exited the chamber, and he leaned down impulsively to kiss the top of her head. But just before his lips made contact, the candlelit niche that had caught his eye earlier now captured his interest. Still holding onto her but pulling away enough to switch their direction, he headed for it, only to stop short when he got a good look at its focal point, curious Lisbon at his side.

Mounted on the rock wall was a piece of flaking, crumbling plaster, apparently removed from a ruin's wall and probably brought over from its place of origin by one of Iona's founders. Seemingly restored at least once over the years, the painting that decorated it in painstaking detail was the image of a woman, identified by the inscription engraved at her feet as Rhiannon. In his research, Jane had come across the Great Queen Goddess of the Welsh ancients. There had also been black and white photographs of decaying statues and line drawings, but none of them did her justice like this. They weren't nearly so . . . fleshed out.

A warhorse pawed the ground behind her, impatient but obviously submissive while a raven flew wild and free overhead, awaiting her beck and call. Dark and flowing hair was crowned with wild roses, slender arms were raised to the crescent moon that shed its benevolent and rather erotically affectionate rays down on her, fair flesh was covered in scant but strategically positioned vines.

And she bore an uncanny resemblance . . .

Jane pulled away from Lisbon and leaned closer to the likeness, eyes widening and sweeping over the image, taking in every detail. His jaw dropped and his disbelieving gaze swiveled from the plaster to the woman glowering at his side and back again. He wanted to speak, wanted to say something, ask something, but words and reason escaped him, leaving him gaping at the artist's ideal, lost in wondering. Eventually, and with great effort, he pulled his focus back to his surroundings. Lisbon had frozen stiffly at his side, and he sensed that she was now also strung tight as a bow. Sliding his gaze toward her, he watched as her eyes narrowed dangerously and shifted sideways to him. His earlier near panic returned when he realized he was breathing quite loudly.

"Walk. Away," she snarled.

In this case, he would yield to the adage that discretion was indeed the better part of valor and obey. Looking back at her over his shoulder, he watched her blow out the candles then snag a roll of crime scene tape from a passing tech. He grinned to himself as he walked toward the exit, hearing the scratch and pull of the adhesive and the muttered cursing behind him and knowing exactly where the Forensics investigation would end. By the time she emerged, he had gotten himself under control and leaned lounging against a venerable oak. She stomped past him in a swirl of angry embarrassment, and he lifted himself off the tree to saunter after her, his long strides easily keeping up. He had already worked out exactly how he would get that piece of plaster.

"You know, Lisbon—"

"Don't"

"—that had all the makings—"

"I mean it, Jane."

"—of a bona fide—"

"I _will_ hurt you."

"—religious experience."

She rounded on him and was momentarily stunned by his grin, so wide and bright it seemed to catch the moonlight and glow into the darkness around them.

"I know _I'm_ a believer."

She had happened to stop in a tiny clearing, and Luna's orb caught in her eyes and melded with their natural sparkle, turning them to quicksilver. Her mouth fell slightly agape at his audacity, and he had the sudden sinking feeling that he had gone too far in a very wrong direction. Something that looked like hurt and humiliation replaced anger, and she blinked away a trembling that broke on the quiver of her bottom lip. Her defenses momentarily crumbled, and he saw the last vestiges of fear, which he realized with a jolt was for him. She inhaled a shudder, and opened her mouth to speak but was unable to find words, an affliction from which she had never suffered before in all the years he'd known her. Her face paled further, and he wondered that she may be hovering between shock or, worse yet, crying. The thought of the latter was so unbearable to him that, seeking to forestall the forming of tears in her lovely eyes, he acted on a very rash but altogether irresistible impulse.

Noting they were completely alone for the moment, he reached out, curled his hands around her upper arms, pulled her to him and kissed her. Square on the lips. He had meant the contact to be brief, little more than a peck really, just to bring her out of the emotional turmoil that had threatened to overtake her, all for her own wellbeing, of course. But once contact was made, he was certain he didn't want to break it. So, he just kept kissing her, shocked to find himself pouring every moment, every ounce of pain and fear and loneliness and want and need into the touch of her soft, full lips. After some seconds, his head began to clear, thanks in large part to the fact that, although she wasn't pulling away, Lisbon wasn't kissing him back. He slowly disengaged his lips from hers and drew away, his head turned slightly to the side, looking at her warily, waiting for the emotional slideshow that was sure to start . . . any minute now . . . 3, 2—

And there it was.

Bewilderment hung on her face, pulling the corners of her mouth down with the weight of it before morphing into utter confusion. Confusion gave way in turn to realization then comprehension to consideration. He really rather she would have skipped some of those steps. She drew her head back—he still held her upper arms in a vice grip. She frowned at him and shook her head in consternation. He waited for her to speak, demand he tell her why he had done what he'd done or yell or something . . . _anything_. She only stared back at him, and when he realized no yelling would be forthcoming, he finally released her from his tense and embarrassingly desperate grasp.

She threw that punch with everything in her. The resulting _crack!_ was loud, violent, and immensely satisfying. Jane doubled over, his hand immediately cradling his nose. _Then_ the yelling started.

"Wha' de hell, Li—"

"Whadda you mean asking _me_ 'what the hell'? What the _hell_, Jane! What could have possibly _possessed_ you to—what were you _thinking_?" She was practically shrieking. He'd never heard her like that before. The woman was perfectly shrewish.

"I jud wanned to heb you!" The nose was definitely broken.

"_Help_ me! By _kissing_ me?"

"I thod you wuh goin inoo shock." He was in pain, and his cupped hand couldn't hold any more blood. Lame though it was, that answer had been the best he could do under the circumstances.

"And what? Your magical kiss would bring me out of it? Like some sleeping princess? Under a spell? What are you? Prince Charming . . . _ASS_?"

"I jus thod—Libbon, I'b bleedink. Canoo sceam ad me in de cah?"

"Oh, . . . _sheep dip_! _Come_ on!".

She took hold of his upper arm and dragged him along the path, talking a blue streak as she went, her tirade peppered liberally with "idiot" and "ass" and a lot of other words she was normally far too professional to say when they were on the clock. Were they still on the clock? He figured the kiss had effectively shut off the clock, even if it had been rather one-sided.

And what was that about? He had kissed her for a good twenty seconds, which was fairly long when you were talking about kisses, especially first completely unexpected kisses. And it had been unexpected. He had been as shocked by his behavior as Lisbon. Why hadn't she responded? Well, obviously, she had reacted to his kissing her, but what about a more immediate response to the kiss itself? He had put nearly everything he had into that kiss, and she had just stood there. There had been a few—he felt—definite signs . . .

He refrained from questioning or remarking aloud. For one thing, between the swelling and his hand cupped over the break it was difficult to speak clearly. Beyond that, he just didn't want to piss her off anymore. With only one free hand, he was less able to protect any other sensitive body parts.

She muscled him along the path, around the next curve and past their teammates who were waiting just inside the tree line.

"Jane's hurt. Taking him to the hospital," she spat at them tersely as she headed for the road and her SUV. After all but stuffing him into the passenger seat, assaulting him with the seatbelt and hurling the first-aid kit at him, she huffed herself into the driver's seat and peeled out.

Rigsby, hands on hips, squinted into the darkness as the sound of gunned engine and squealing tires died away.

"That look broken to you?"

"Probably," Cho responded.

"Think she hit 'im?"

"Yeah."

"He maybe tried something?"

"That'd be my guess."

"So you were right, you know, about . . .," Van Pelt added.

"Yeah."

"Should we go after 'em?"

"No."

A few seconds of contemplative silence passed.

"So—uhm. Did you guys see that—"

"Yeah."

"Rhi-ahhh-nonnn."

"Don't ever say that again. Especially like that."

"You gotta admit, man—"

"No. I don't."

"Do you think he saw—she—do you thing they got a look at it?" Van Pelt questioned with a tone of discomfort Cho thought would have better suited Rigsby under the circumstances.

"Probably," Cho grunted for the second time.

"Oh, yeah," Rigsby seconded.

"You don't think it put ideas into his head, . . . do you?"

"Heck, I'm not even hot for her, and it put ideas into _my_ head." Rigsby didn't seem uncomfortable at all.

"You are such a pig." Van Pelt turned in a huff and stomped toward their SUV.

"Well . . . you saw it, right?"

"Yeah . . . I saw it."

Cho and Rigsby turned and looked at one another in the dark, sensing rather than seeing the identical grins that broke out on their faces.

"We can't ever bring this up, can we?"

"Not if you don't want to get punched."

"By which one?"

"Lisbon would punch you. Jane would do something worse."

The taller agent sunk his fists into his trouser pockets and dug his toe into the loam.

"So, . . . how long?"

"New Years. Longer maybe. Things were weird when she got back from her Christmas time-off."

"Yeah. Things have been weird. But not all of the time, you know?"

"Holidays."

"What?"

Cho sighed in resignation at having to go through the whole explanation. No need to tell Rigsby everything he'd observed though.

"New Year's Eve, Jane insisted we leave him and Lisbon behind on that state senator's murder investigation. Then, the day after Valentine's Day, he's nowhere to be found and Lisbon calls in sick. She was south, toward Malibu."

"How do you know that?"

Cho just looked at him a moment, expressionless, before continuing as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"St. Patrick's Day Lisbon stormed out of the office in a huff. Couple of minutes later, Jane gets a text and leaves, smiling like a kid at Christmas. Easter—well, you saw."

"Yeah. He was smelling her. And then later—"

"Right. Memorial Day we left them in the office. Next morning I was first in, they're both sleeping on their couches, been there all night. I found the tv remote and some popcorn in Jane's couch cushions later. Fourth of July, in San Francisco, Jane made us leave them behind again, and they were in late the next day."

Rigsby frowned at his shoe, thinking. "I remember that. They barely made it in at all. Anything since then?"

"No." Cho stopped to consider that then continued slowly. "Although I did lose track of them for a while at my mom's . . ."

"They were dancing."

"Dancing?"

"In the garden. CBI called you, and you asked me to find them. They were in your mom's garden. Dancing. But . . . more."

"More than dancing?"

"Don't know how else to describe it. They were just dancing, but I got the distinct impression I was . . . you know . . . _interrupting_."

Cho had gotten that same impression several times over the years, but in the last few months it had definitely been more pronounced.

"So . . .," Rigsby continued. "What do we do?"

"Do?" Cho grunted at him.

"Yeah. Shouldn't we do . . . _something_?"

"Like what? Ask Jane his intentions?" Now Cho was smirking, but Rigsby doggedly soldiered on.

"No . . . but yeah."

"You can ask him if you want—"

"No way. Definitely not having that conversation with Jane."

"He'd probably just deny anything was going on anyway."

Both men looked up in surprise at Van Pelt, standing just past a low bough of hemlock.

"You didn't really think I was going to just walk away while you were talking about them, did you?"

She trudged toward them. "Besides, he'd start acting funny, turn it back on us and make us pay for getting too close. And Boss would get all tense . . ."

They could barely make out her features enough to see her nose scrunch and her lips pull to one side. Cho was the next to speak up.

"I say we watch."

"Watch?" Rigsby was smirking again, deliberately baiting him.

"Don't be stupid. We observe. Be alert."

"They're not criminals, you know. I'm not sure it's against the rules. He's not an agent."

"Maybe not against the rules, but it's sure against nature."

"No, it's not. Actually, if you think about it—"

"I don't wanna think about it."

"—they kind of go together."

"Go together?"

"Yeah. You know. Alike in the ways that count and different in the ways that count."

"Incendiary in the ways that count, you mean." Rigsby, ever the arson specialist.

"That too. But it could work."

"What could work?" Rigsby asked dubiously.

"Them," Van Pelt answered succinctly, as if that was all the explanation needed.

"Whadda _you_ think?" Rigsby, still uncertain, turned to his best source of wisdom and sense.

"There's a lot against them."

They stood, looking in the direction in which the two objects of their discussion had sped away. All were quiet, knowing what he meant, thinking about what that meant for all of _them_, a little sad for boss and consultant that everything Cho had hinted at was true. Van Pelt sighed impatiently, directing her question to the only one of them who seemed to have any plan.

"How long do we watch?" She grimaced at her misspeak. "_Observe_."

"Until the next time."

**END**

**Dear Readers (and wonderful Reviewers, including all of those to whom I couldn't reply)—**

**First, thank you for taking time to read this very long Author's Note. I'll be taking October off (I know, I know—Halloween has so much potential. That's why I injected some magical crazy into this installment and a kiss, unexpected and less than romantic results aside.).**

**Throughout these stories, Red John has still been alive if mostly inactive. It suits my purpose at this point that he cease to be. I am taking the liberty of adopting the show's M.O. for bringing that about, following events from S3 Episode Red Queen through the season finale and including my one-shots "A Magician Never Reveals", "Nothing Up My Sleeve" (that followed S3 Episode Redacted and The Amazing Culpepper Punch), and "No More Illusions" (following the finale). I'm not plugging those stories, but there will be things in upcoming installments that refer back to them, albeit lightly. It's all just happening at a later date, within my timeline for these stories. In earlier installments, I wrote LaRoche as the head of the department, but I've gone back and rewritten Hightower back in for the sake of the story line. Ah, the blessings of un-medicated OCD.**

**I am, however, taking creative liberties with Jane's trial (which also occurs off story). It will follow Cho's plan as he discussed it with Jane in "No More Illusions", Jane being acquitted because the Prosecution charged him with murder one but was unable to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. The "Next Time" will be Thanksgiving, with Lisbon and Jane working through the post-trial tension (which there really should have been more of in the S4 opening, which really should have been two hours long).**

**Thanks for sticking with me!**


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